


a lovely light

by Bootstrap_Paradox



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Soft Porn, but also hot, cute and fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 16:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20011087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bootstrap_Paradox/pseuds/Bootstrap_Paradox
Summary: They've spent such a long time wanting each other and thinking it will never come true. Now, finally, the forbidden fruit is theirs - but they hesitate. Someone has to start. Someone has to *ask*. Days go by, then weeks, then a few months, and no one has brought it up yet. Then, one day, a sudden thunderstorm comes to aid...





	a lovely light

**Author's Note:**

> It was hard to decide whether to tag this as mature or explicit. I settled on "explicit" in the end, based on my own "would they get away with this in an actual TV-show" thought experiment. I think it just about steps over that line. However, this is not your usual explicit fanfic, it's more soft and subtle. If that is your thing/something you are looking for, proceed. 
> 
> Also, this story was written by listening to a thunderstorm. I suggest listening to one while you read it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWoIljGEOQ4

Contrary to popular belief, time is not a strict, linear progression from the past to the future, but rather a bright and sparkling mess of moments, histories and eternities.

Humans aren’t aware of this, of course. Not even the smartest of physicists. Sometimes, they _feel_ it; those rare days that seem to stretch out and linger just before the sunset, or the years that fly past you in a blink of an eye.

Psychologists will tell you that the _perception_ of time is subjective. That boring activities can create an illusion of time slowing down, or that time tends to speed up as you grow old because your life is not as exciting anymore. Demons and angels, however, know better. They know that it is not the perception that is subjective, but the flow itself. Some of them can even manipulate it. And they feel it, too. Feel the seconds pile up, century after century after century.

Aziraphale’s fingers are tapping the polished surface of his desk. His eyes are half-closed, gaze unfocused, mind wandering elsewhere. He glances at the clock. Crowley is late. The rain rustles against the hazy windows, the wind pushing it to such angles, it almost seems like it is falling in a horizontal pattern. In the solemn half-darkness of the closed bookshop, the only sounds are the ticking clock, the heavy rain, and the slow breathing of the angel.

-Sorry I’m late!

And then, suddenly, the place fills with noise. Aziraphale smiles. He gets up from the desk and walks towards the entrance, where Crowley is trying to brush the rain from his coat. His lips are pale, shades slipping off his nose, and his hair is soaking wet, as if he had just stepped out of a shower. Aziraphale finds it strangely attractive.

-The weather out there is proper scary. – Crowley announces, wiping his feet on the doormat. – If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’re in for the second round of Armageddon.

-I rather think humans call it global climate change. – Aziraphale responds.

Before he gets a chance to fit in another word, Crowley steps forward, places a cold hand on his cheek and kisses him. Brief, chaste, lips closed – yet it sends a spark through their bodies, and they both can tell that it does.

-I suppose I should fetch my umbrella. – Aziraphale continues.

-No bloody point. – Crowley tells him. – It will either flip inside out or get torn out of your hands.

-What do you propose then?

-Don’t know. – He shrugs. – Cover your face and run for the car?

-The car? – Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, as if he had just found out that Crowley owns one. – We aren’t going to drive through that storm, surely? It’s not safe.

-I drove here somehow, didn’t I? – Crowley reminds. – Humans manage it.

-Humans don’t drive like you do. – He mutters. – Look, it’s getting worse now.

Crowley is about to compose a long and poignant speech in defense of his driving abilities, when something smacks into one of the windows with such force, it almost cracks the glass.

-The movie starts in twenty minutes. – Crowley says, still staring at the window.

-It’s half an hour on the underground. – Aziraphale suggests. – We can skip the trailers.

-But I love the trailers. – He pouts. – And anyway, I’m not walking all the way to the station.

Even the thought of the drenching cold makes him shiver.

-We could miracle ourselves there.

-Last time I did _that_ for no good reason, Beelz threatened to put maggots down my ears. – Crowley muses. – I wonder if they meant it.

-Fine. – Aziraphale breaths out. – Any alternative suggestions?

Crowley pauses. He gives the window another glance, and discovers that it is now covered in leaves and torn off tree branches. He listens to the wind, and he can taste the static in the air. A thunderstorm is coming. He sighs and begins to unbutton his coat.

-We’re staying in. – He announces, and reaches into his pocket for his smartphone. – I’ll cancel the booking. We can watch it some other time.

They sit in one of the smaller rooms of Aziraphale’s backstage apartment, and everything seems so much cozier in contrast to the nightmare that raptures outside. The ginger tea is sweeter. The cushions are softer. The lights shine gently on their faces. The electric fireplace that Crowley gifted for the cold Christmas of 1956 crackles, echoing the distant roars of thunder. And the two lovers edge ever so closer on the sofa – almost close enough to hear each other think. Almost… but not quite.

In the few months that they’ve been together, this is the first time Crowley and Aziraphale stay in for a calm evening. They used to have them all the time _before_ , coming up with any half-decent excuse to spend a few hours watching television or discussing their “jobs”. Sometimes Crowley would stay over to help the angel dust the shelves, even though they both knew that he was a couple inches taller than him at most. But recently, the state of affairs is different.

Recently they always had to have a solid reason to meet. Dinner. Movies. Opera. A football match, of all places – something neither of them actually enjoyed. It was almost like they were afraid of staying alone with each other for long, afraid of something intangible, something they couldn’t put into words. Yet.

Well, today it manifests itself again. Today it lingers in the air, ever so present, so close you can’t ignore it. Today they have no places left to hide.

The thunder crashes again, and a flash of light blinks in the room. Aziraphale is tapping his fingers again. He is worried about that spot directly underneath the roof that might start leaking… or so he tells himself. He sips his tea and turns sideways.

-Your hair is still wet. – Aziraphale comments, brushing his fingers against Crowley’s forehead. – Do you want a towel for it?

The demon shakes his head, making a drop slide past his ear and drop on his shoulder.

-Are you cold? – Aziraphale coos. – Do you want a blanket?

-I’m good. – Crowley replies, turning to face him.

It is silly, really, not to talk about it. Here they are, so close to each other – close enough for their knees to touch, close enough for Aziraphale to smell the YSL “Opium” on Crowley’s skin… all they need is for someone to start the conversation. As it so happens, Aziraphale is braver.

-Crowley, dear. – He says, his hand placed gingerly atop Crowley’s shoulder. – I’ve been thinking…

-Good. – Crowley interrupts. The meek softness of Aziraphale’s “dear” is enough to force the air out of his lungs. – I should do more of that. Thinking. – He elaborates. – Preferably before I do or say things.

-I’ve been thinking. – Aziraphale continues like he wasn’t at all interrupted. – This… being together matter.

“Oh sweet Satan he is going to dump me” rushes through Crowley’s mind faster than the speed of light, disproving Einstein once and for all.

-It’s wonderful. – Follows a millisecond later, and Crowley is spared a heart attack. – But also… confusing.

-Yeah. – Crowley agrees.

If you could describe spending six thousand years being in love with your best friend, then almost losing him, preventing the end of the world together, and confessing your love to him all in in the span of one week, the word would definitely be “confusing”.

-We have to discuss these things, you know. – Aziraphale’s voice is quieter, more tender now, and it is driving Crowley insane.

-Things like what? – Crowley prompts.

He can’t. He still can’t. He wants – no, he _needs_ the angel to say it.

-Like sex. – He finishes, almost a whisper.

There is a pause, and the thunderstorm roars ever louder outside.

This is an area they have not explored before. They have kissed numerous times, made out with hungry, burning passion – till their heartbeats ringed in their ears, till the world dissolved into nothing, leaving them the only ones left on the planet. They have gone slightly further too. Touched each other through their clothes, ventured down with the kisses, slipped their fingers under shirts and collars. On one occasion, they were almost ready to go further – undid each other’s collars, took off their jackets, then stopped…

They weren’t sure why. They both wanted it, or at least they assumed the other one did. From the first kiss, it felt so natural, never strained or forced. But the action felt big, and important, and special. The stakes were too high, the expectations too great. It was almost as if they were scared to rush in and discover that the precious moment they have dreamed about for decades was not as magical as they wanted it to be.

-Well then. – Aziraphale says, moving, unconsciously, ever so slightly away on the sofa. – Have you ever?

-Had sex, you mean? – Crowley asks, and the angel nods. – Yes.

He expects Aziraphale to look jealous, hurt even, but he doesn’t. He raises an eyebrow, gives him a singular nod and prompts him to continue. If anything, he seems curious.

-How many people? – Aziraphale asks.

This isn’t news to him, of course. A demon as attractive as Crowley – he is bound to have quite a record.

-I don’t think I’d be able to put a number on it. – Crowley shrugs, and it doesn’t seem to surprise Aziraphale either.

But Crowley is lying – which he never does to his angel. He knows exactly how many people he’s had sex with – two.

The first was a young man by the name of Cassius, whom he met in 119 AD on the territory of the Ancient Roman Empire. Crowley likes to think that he has seduced Cassius, but instead, Cassius seduced him. The man laid in his arms that night, and asked him whether he would go to hell now. Crowley laughed. “It takes a bit more than being gay to secure yourself a place down there”, he said. “What did you do then?”, Cassius asked. In response, Crowley kissed the man on the cheek, got up, and left – first his house, and then the town as well.

The second was Miles. He met Miles in London, during the 1930s, and they kept crossing paths for well over a year before the young man finally asked Crowley out. They had a rather complicated relationship. Crowley was very clear from the start that he loved another person and that all they would have is sex. Hell, he only ever considered it because Miles reminded him vaguely of Aziraphale. It went on for a few years, until, inevitably, they couldn’t do it anymore. It hurt too much. Hurt Crowley because he couldn't keep seeing the wrong face on the right side of his bed. Hurt Miles because he couldn't keep looking into Crowley's eyes and knowing that he doesn't see him back.

That was it. No one else - even though there have been plenty of opportunities. What Crowley actually couldn’t put a number on was how many times he has touched himself thinking about Aziraphale's hand in place of his own. Oh, how he hated himself afterward. Not because it was wrong, but because he was indulging an impossibility by lusting after an angel, and because he knew - or thought he knew – that he will never get to learn how it truly feels like…

Nonetheless, it has been rather educating, that one relationship, and besides, two is still more than Aziraphale’s zero. Or is it a zero? Crowley certainly thinks so. Aziraphale, he has assumed for years, knows nothing about sex, and probably hasn’t even considered it – being a creature of pureness and light and all that. But it is worth asking to make sure.

-You? – Crowley asks, mentally preparing himself for any possible answer.

-No. – He replies, and gives him a warm smile. – Not with, khm, another person, if you know what I mean.

-Right. – Crowley nods.

He does know what the angel means, and just that image fills him with so much desire, it is hard for him to maintain eye contact – even through his shades.

Aziraphale, as opposed to Crowley, is telling the truth. He has never been with another person… and not for the lack of offers. In fact, he hasn’t even thought about it, until fairly recently. For thousands of years he was perfectly contempt with all the other human pleasures, leaving this particular aspect out of his circle of interest. Not that it didn’t seem appealing. It did, however, seem awfully complicated to him -what with all the courtship and dancing that went into it. He always meant to look into it, but he had plenty of other things to do as well, so it kept being postponed to another century.

He changed his mind fairly quickly, in September of 1945. That month, having spent four years in an agonizing struggle with his own thoughts, he has finally admitted it to himself. Yes, he loved Crowley. It couldn’t be denied anymore. And although he rather suspected that the demon might have feelings for him too, he also knew perfectly well that they couldn’t be together. Foolish. Dangerous. Out of the question. Aziraphale wasn’t always smart about everything he did, but he was quite certain – no matter how much he wanted Crowley, he would never let him get hurt because of him. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

The realization did, however, fill him with thoughts and needs he didn’t have before. Or maybe he did, but never noticed it, never let himself notice it. Suddenly Aziraphale was raiding English libraries and bookshops, searching for anything and everything related to the topic of sex. It was quite tricky at first, but he quickly discovered just where to find the right stuff. He read everything he could get his hands on, from fictional erotica to scientific research. He was most excited indeed when the Masters and Johnson study was published, and personally bought a copy for every scientific library in Great Britain. His bookshop also had copies of Kinsey’s “sexual behavior”, signed by the man himself, stored away from view and potential customers.

Several decades of book reading, and he became rather intimately acquainted with all manners of things relating to sexuality. And though his understanding of the Internet was atrocious, somehow, he figured out how to use search engines, and continued his research in Internet cafes by typing his inquiries into the search bar, complete with “please and thank you”. It always yielded the right result on the first attempt, by some miracle. Over the years he built a vast catalog of sexual knowledge in his memory, and developed quite a tolerance for it too - so much so that he could read explicit erotica on the bus with a calm and serious face and avoid even the hints of blushing.

Crowley, on the other hand, still goes slightly pink when people hit on him, and talks exclusively in euphemisms. He knows about that stuff, of course - it just makes him uneasy for some reason.

That’s what Aziraphale knows. What he says, however, is a simple:

-I have done my homework on it though.

And Crowley isn’t sure about the extent of his “homework”, but he doesn’t ask for specifics. They stare off into the distance for a while, listening to the rain. Neither feels uncomfortable, or awkward, or embarrassed. They are best friends after all. There is nothing in the whole wide world they wouldn’t be able to discuss. Yet, for some reason, this is different. And, for the first time since that pivotal “I love you”, Crowley feels lost, and Aziraphale doesn’t know how to find him.

This is where they are. One who has some experience, but who has acquired with it a veil of shame, and guilt, and shyness. He is fluent in the slang, he knows all about the kinks and quirks and other human practices, but his knowledge is rather superficial. The other has, if anything, too much knowledge – from how to locate the G-spot to the specifics of how to tie someone up without causing them pain – but has never really put it to use. Unless you count everything he ever did alone, in the privacy of his own bedroom.

Their level of comfort around the topic also varies. Back when Crowley was still nanny to Warlock, the seven-year-old caught her off-guard with a traditional “where do babies come from?”, to which she mumbled something incoherent about “from hell, in your case” and told the boy to go ask his parents. This was the one and only time Warlock ever saw his nanny lose her calm.

Meanwhile Brother Francis, fascinated to no end by human physiology, was absolutely delighted to hear that question and spent a good half an hour explaining to a mesmerized but utterly confused Warlock how "the biologically male person ejaculates, after which the sperm travels through the vaginal canal into the uterus and then fallopian tubes where one lucky sperm cell fertilizes the egg cell" - all with a straight face and a casual attitude of a biology teacher. And this is certainly not something that Crowley expects.

The conversation drags on. Both are dancing around the subject, anticipating its natural progression, but afraid to cross the gap themselves. Eventually, Aziraphale manages to fit in the "I am surprised you haven't asked yet", which makes Crowley glad he is still wearing his shades.

-Well, - Aziraphale prompts, - would you like to, as my lot would say, _know_ me?

Crowley is stunned. He didn’t know it actually needed saying.

-Bloody hell, angel, I, uhhh, - he stammers, - of course I want you, I've been thinking about you for years while I...

And he trails off.

-You mean you think of me while you masturbate, dear? - Aziraphale guesses, and no matter how hard he tries not to, Crowley still blushes.

Noticing the pink color, Aziraphale is ready to launch his "this is nothing to be ashamed of" tirade, when Crowley interrupts him.

-I just never thought this is something you'd be interested in. – He says, quietly, almost sadly.

In response, Aziraphale smirks (in a way that angels shouldn't smirk at all, but suits him perfectly), raises his hand and slowly takes the shades off his face. Crowley freezes. Suddenly, he forgets both how to talk and how to breathe. Aziraphale doesn’t seem flustered at all; he looks him in the eyes before saying:

-Angels, dear, also don’t enjoy eating human food, or own bookshops, or fall for demons.

Crowley swallows hard and blinks. He isn’t sure where that thought is going, but so far, he likes it.

-Sex, - Aziraphale continues, and his voice sounds hoarse and low all of a sudden, - is but another human pleasure I do not wish to miss out on. Now that I have someone to share it with, and no one is standing over our shoulders to tell us we can’t do it.

-So, we can? – Crowley forces a laugh. – Funny. Six thousand years of declining every seduction job I was ever offered…

-No one is telling you what to do anymore. – Aziraphale interrupts, and Crowley feels his breath on his face. – You can go freelance now. – He says.

And Crowley, Crowley wants to say so many things - so many thoughts that have been plaguing him for centuries, pestering his consciousness at night and bursting out of him at last… but instead, he covers the last few millimeters between them, and pulls Aziraphale into a kiss.

Many things can be said – and, indeed, have been said – about sex. Some consider it an indecent, vulgar subject; something primal, animal-like, distinctly uncivilized - an urge to be suppressed, not encouraged. Others think it beautiful, and special; an extension of love and affection, a moment of trust and intimacy – something that started off as a basic reproduction instinct and evolved into something infinitely more complex, with whole layers of meaning all weaved into it. Fundamentally, sex has always been an act of pleasure. It makes sense – no one would bother to do it if it didn’t feel good. And tonight, that’s what it is for Crowley and Aziraphale – a pleasure they can share with each other, focus on it, savor it, until they squeeze every last drop of joy that they have denied each other for millennia.

Still, Crowley is apprehensive. From personal experience, he knows that first times doing _anything_ tend to be awkward. Especially sex. His first time certainly was, even though he let the other orchestrate the play. Indeed, his first time making love was more something being done to him than something he actively took part in. Only later did he learn the real moves.

He expects his first time with Aziraphale to be rather awkward too, and he accepts it. They will have near infinite opportunities to do it again. They can perfect it, learn _everything_ about each other’s physical bodies, about what makes them tick – and do other things. Tonight, he can let it happen as it will happen. He is sure that his love will speak for itself, and besides, the angel has nothing to compare him to anyway.

What Crowley doesn’t expect is for Aziraphale to take the lead from the start, eager to put to use all the knowledge he has acquired in preparation just for such a moment. The reality takes the demon by surprise. As their kisses deepen, going from short bursts to drawn-out explorations, Crowley feels Aziraphale’s hand on the back of his neck, and can’t help but gasp, briefly interrupting the kiss.

Aziraphale is very gentle. He plays with his hair, and draws circles on his skin with his fingers, watching closely for his lover’s reaction. Gradually his hand slides down and tugs at the collar of Crowley’s shirt, while his other migrates to Crowley’s knee. It all seems elegant, precise… almost planned. Like he definitely knows what he’s doing. Meanwhile Crowley is too stunned, too lost in all of the night’s possibilities to do more than just sit there, his hands on Aziraphale’s waist, and moan, barely audible, into the kisses.

Soon they break apart, catching their breath even though they don’t actually require oxygen. Their eyes meet in the semi-darkness, and their gazes are so full of passion and love, it almost hurts.

-Bedroom. – Aziraphale whispers.

-Sorry?

-I said, bedroom. – He repeats, and Crowley nods.

He walks like a zombie – following his angel’s footsteps in the dark, barely aware of what’s going on around him. He sees a flash of lighting on the wall and pinches himself. The pinch is painful, yet he is still not convinced that this is more than some particularly captivating dream, from which he will wake up any moment now, stuck to the ceiling of his own apartment. “Well”, Crowley thinks, stepping over the threshold after Aziraphale, “if this is a dream… might as well give it my best”.

Strangely, he has never been in Aziraphale’s bedroom before. He wasn’t even sure that the angel enjoyed sleep.

-Do you like it? – Aziraphale asks, pointing to the armchairs, the ever-present bookshelves, and, oh yes, the huge bed covered in what appears to be rather expensive linen. – I don’t really sleep, - he says, as if he has read Crowley’s mind, - but an apartment _should_ have a bedroom, you know? It would be strange to not have a bedroom.

-Don’t lie, angel. – Crowley quips, and forces a cheeky smirk. – We both know the _other_ purpose of bedrooms.

-Well. – Aziraphale doesn’t seem flustered in the slightest. – And what if I do?

Once again, Crowley is beat at his own game.

They sit down on the edge of the bed, facing each other. Their natural flow has been interrupted, and they aren’t sure how to get it going again. Once more, Aziraphale takes the first step. He leans forward and places a kiss on Crowley's lips, but doesn’t stay there, doesn’t even open his mouth. Instead, he moves out. Kisses the side of his lips, then his cheek, then the left side of his neck. Brushes his nose along the side of Crowley’s face, then comes back down. The kisses are brief, exploratory. He is testing the waters, learning the taste of Crowley’s skin, the way it feels against his lips. Meanwhile, his hand lands on the back of Crowley’s head, and his fingers slowly trace along his spine down to the edge of his shirt. Crowley gasps, softly.

-You like that, dear? – Aziraphale asks, and repeats the motion.

-Yeah. – Crowley responds, and it is a miracle Aziraphale can hear him at all.

-You can tell me. – He says, letting his fingers under the edge of the shirt. – What feels good. – He brushes the fingers against the naked skin, feels the dips just at the base of his spine. – Ask me to do things.

Crowley nods. He’ll be sure to do that, once he remembers how to speak English – or any language, in fact. Aziraphale is now moving further with the kisses. First, the angel’s hand folds the side of his button-up so that he can press his lips to his collarbone. Then he begins to unbutton the shirt, one button after another. For the first time since they sat down, Crowley moves. He helps with the unbuttoning, starting from the other end until their hands meet in the middle. Aziraphale is the one to actually take the shirt off Crowley’s body, and the angel’s fingers feel absolutely divine on his bare back.

Aziraphale studies him for a moment. Before proceeding, he gets rid of most of his layers, leaving only a snow-white button-down. Crowley can undo those buttons once he is ready. Instead, Aziraphale places his palms on Crowley’s shoulders, and the demon shivers. Crowley closes his eyes while Aziraphale’s hands slide down his body, tracing over his chest, his ribs, and his stomach. They kiss while the angel explores every inch of his skin, his hands warm and caring. Eventually, the hands find their place, one on the back of his head, the other just above his trousers. Crowley has now discovered that the angel likes his hair ruffled and played with, and has been practicing the skill for a while. Now he is ready to move on, undoing that shirt, and turning it from perfectly ironed to crumpled and resting on the floor near them.

-You’re perfect. – Crowley mutters, as his hands go over Aziraphale’s back, the lines of his chest and the folds of his stomach.

His motions are quicker, more ragged, giving away the burning desire and the desperate want of six thousand years. Aziraphale doesn’t mind. His skin burns under Crowley’s touch, and it is the most wonderful feeling. Crowley lingers while kissing his neck, and the angel knows that, if he was truly human, he would wake up with a dark stain on the next day. Then they return to making out, embracing each other. The feeling of their naked bodies pressed together is overwhelming; Crowley might have lost heaven once, but in that moment, he is quite sure he has found it again.

It begins to dawn on him just how real it all is when Aziraphale slips his fingers under the rubber of his underwear for the first time. The experience is not completely new after all. They have made out before, many times, and they have even touched each other, albeit through the fabric of their clothes. But this is different. This is _more_. He is trying to hold himself back, trying to stretch it out and prolong it, but it is much harder than he has anticipated.

Suddenly he feels Aziraphale’s caring but firm hand move from his knee to his thigh and then his crotch. Crowley’s eyes are tight shut, his face pressed into Aziraphale’s chest as a moan escapes his lips. The angel’s hand presses harder and moves sideways. For Crowley, it is too much. He feels the pleasure in him burn and boil, like the raging storm outside. It engulfs him utterly, takes over his consciousness… just one or two more strokes of the angel's hand through the fabric of his trousers, and the pleasure spills over. His hand is grasping the linen, his breathing sharp, his heart racing in his chest.

-Sorry. – Crowley whispers, half-embarrassed, half-overjoyed, the afterglow of the orgasm still bubbling in him.

He didn’t expect himself to last long, but that was way too fast. The angel has barely touched him.

-It’s okay. – Aziraphale assures him, stroking his hair. - We have somewhat human bodies, Crowley, - he reminds him, - but no human limitations.

This is how the demon knows that they can go on tonight - go on and on, until the millennia-old hunger is at least somewhat satisfied. And just with that thought, he is already hard again.

He comes several times that night: when Aziraphale's tongue runs over his nipple and makes him cry out in utter delight and joy; when their bodies rub against each other, once all they are left with is their underwear, Crowley’s back pressed into the velvety sheets; when a hand slips under the rubber band of his boxer briefs once more and brushes against him and, finally, it actually is Aziraphale's palm, and not just a fantasy of it. He doesn’t mind it in the slightest. Tonight, Crowley is slow, cautious, almost meek. It’s like he is worried, anxious to let himself go, afraid of hurting his angel, somehow.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is quick and confident. He treats the experience like a science experiment, taking mental notes every time he notices Crowley’s body twitch in ecstasy, or steals a sigh of pleasure from his lips. And he comes more than once as well. He does while Crowley is covering his body in kisses, when he brushes the side of his palm against his erection in a most perfect way; and then again, when nothing special is happening, really - just from the sound of Crowley's heavy breathing and moaning next to his ear as he traces his hand from the back of his neck down and down and down. But mostly, he paces himself. He is still holding back for what is to follow.

Who knows how much time lapses, the two lovers lost in the moment, kissing and touching and making their decade-old fantasies come true at last. Eventually, they find themselves breathless, resting on the mushed and twisted covers. Aziraphale is on top, looking down at Crowley. Somehow, they are still in their underwear – not moving on, waiting for the other to take the first step. Aziraphale isn’t one for breaking traditions, even these freshly established ones. He gives Crowley one last longing look before he moves down. He traces his path with kisses – neck, collarbone, chest, ribs poking through the skin, stomach moving in turn with Crowley’s breath. As he places another kiss just above his hip bone, he slides the underwear down Crowley’s legs. First goes Crowley’s, then Aziraphale’s. The angel is about to move the kisses even lower, when Crowley stops him.

-Not now. – He says. – Later. We’ll do that next time.

And Aziraphale understands.

So instead, they both sit up, hands still on each other's bodies. They look each other in the eyes, and kiss, and smile through the kiss, utterly absorbed by the ridiculous joy of it all. They don't really look at each other - as if they're still afraid, still feel like it is not allowed. One click of his fingers, and Crowley turns off the already dimmed-down lights. They don't need them anyway - their eyes are almost always closed. They need all of their attention focused on sound, and touch, and smell.

Slowly Aziraphale falls down, letting Crowley go on top. He pulls the covers over them, leaving its edge just above his waistline. Then they grind against each other, erections rubbing on each other’s thighs and hips – slowly, taking their time, savoring every second. Crowley’s face is pressed into Aziraphale’s chest, and the angel has his fingers in his hair. They both moan – Crowley louder than Aziraphale – as the pleasure builds up, tight knots in their groins, the sensation spilling over their entire bodies. They guide their movements with their hands, every motion taking them closer.

They are speeding up now. Crowley bites into Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale tightens his grasp on Crowley’s hair. They press even closer, the motions fast and firm, and the sensation is now so good, it is almost unbearable. All Aziraphale can manage is short gasps, and he can hear Crowley whimper in pleasure close to his ear. The last few seconds are so profound, so overwhelming, it almost makes them forget they have bodies. They don’t even feel their arms and legs anymore – it’s all one pulsing glow of ecstasy.

They finish almost at the same time, one a second or two after another, and the whole world goes black for a while. Crowley fears he might pass out from it. He is barely aware of the sounds that come out of his mouth. All he can feel is Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale… so close to him, sharing this moment with him… _his_.

-Okay, - he says once he regains his ability to speak, - that was…

-Indeed. – Aziraphale agrees even before he hears the rest of that sentence.

-…the best thing that ever happened to me. – Crowley concludes, and grabs Aziraphale’s hand.

-It was? – Aziraphale asks, looking at him, and Crowley seems offended that he would even consider it untrue. – For you, I mean.

He shares the sentiment, but surely, Crowley has so many other moments to compare to…

-Swear on everything that is holy to me. – Crowley assures him, kissing his fingers.

-Nothing is holy to you. – Aziraphale chuckles softly.

-On the contrary. – He disagrees. – There’s _you_.

So much is hidden in the way he says it, so many secret meanings… they can’t quite be described with words.

-Best thing then. – Aziraphale half-pronounces, half-whispers. – For both of us, I gather. Well. – He smiles, pulling Crowley closer to himself. – That is one high score to beat.

-I’m looking forward to it. – Crowley replies, and melts into the embrace.

Laying there in each other's arms while the storm still rages outside is almost as good as what happened before. There will be other nights - so much time to try all kinds of things that Aziraphale has learned all about. But today, they will simply sleep in the same bed, embracing each other, hiding from their own small Armageddon. They don’t have words for each other anymore, and they don’t need them. The bed is almost supernaturally comfortable, and the rain is mild and quiet. No more thunder.

And time is kind to these two, holding on to each other like they are their only salvation, and maybe they are. Time listens. It feels their love, and it believes them. And tonight, just for them, it stretches out the present, and allows them to forget about the past. Nothing else matters now. Not the grief, or anguish, or the multitude of missed opportunities. Now, there is no more pain. Now, they have each other at last. And the future, well…

They certainly have a lot of it.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, "First Fig". You can read it here: poets.org/poem/first-fig
> 
> There are several other references, though I don't feel like pointing them out. If you want them pointed out, feel free to write me an ask on tumblr (bootstrapparadoxed.tumblr.com) or leave a comment.
> 
> Yes, I know that Crowley's clothes are projections, but the image of unbuttoning a shirt from both ends with their hands meeting in the middle was too exquisite to resist. 
> 
> This was a tricky thing to write, so please, do tell me what you think!


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